finished my second draft of “Unprepared”, set in Vancouver 2017. Here is a little piece.
Wind. Cool ocean breeze. Inhale. Exhale.
A lone cry of a seagull in the distance.
Sun seeps through half-closed eyelids.
Cold wetness extending from neck down.
Raise hand to touch where wetness begins, at the back of my head.
Fingers come sticky with
Sun insistent, urging to open unwanting eyes.
So quiet. Everywhere.
Eyes open. Slowly. Can’t. Must.
Chilly. Freezing. Body shaking. Uncontrollably. Must. Take control. Do something.
Flap of unseen wings and then quiet again. Lips dry. Thirsty.
So cold. Where?
Ragged breathing. In. Out. In again. Me breathing. I am breathing. In. Out. Must do something. About this cold.
Still blurry but.
I think I know where I am. Rough concrete supports my back. Pins and needles in my buttocks and lower legs. More concrete underneath me. Dull pulsation in left calf. More sticky wetness down there.
I make a conscious effort to bend forward and touch it. Some thing smooth and foreign. Glass? Window glass? Remove. More wetness. More pain but then better. Makes my head clearer.
Where? Balcony floor. My place.
Will think later. Need to get back inside.
Let’s go find Kitten
Do you know how many people drown in their vehicles during the flood season in Texas? I don’t. But I see it on the news all the time so there must be a lot. And I always think how stupid of them.
So I have this dream sometimes. I am in a car my old Chevy? There is water all around me. And, I guess, in my dream, I am drowning. I cannot open the door or do anything. I can only watch the water seep into the car in slow mo. Now it’s just a puddle on the floor. Now it’s up to my ankles. So I retract my feet onto the driver’s seat.
It’s a dream so I don’t feel panicky or worried, just a bit curious. Until I notice someone outside the passenger window. I am mildly surprised to see him. He is saying shouting? something, but I cannot hear. Of course. Because the window is shut. What does he want me to do, open it?
And then he starts pounding on the glass with his fists. The sounds he makes are plasticky, muffled by the water around us. Thump. Thump. Silly of him, why does he want to break it? I’ll drown if he does. I always wake up just as he manages to bash through the window and the water rushes in, mixed with the blood from his cut hands.
And, oh, I could explain it all away with my psychoanalysis skills. I’m a pro, after all. But why would I bother? It’s easier to just stay away.